


Sick With A Capital S

by storyplease



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Banter, Comfort, F/M, Humor, Love, sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 16:05:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13662468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyplease/pseuds/storyplease
Summary: Hermione is feeling awful. All she wants to do is rest.  The last thing she want to do is see the man she loves in her sorry state.  So, of course, Severus shows up.





	Sick With A Capital S

Her alarm is going off. She’s not quite sure how long it’s been blaring, but she’s woken up at least three times only to fall back into a strange half-sleep where everything seems to stretch out around her far more than it should, only to contract back down to blurry shapes whenever she opens her eyes. 

 

“Ugh….” she trails off, unable to summon the effort to moan in pain properly.  Her head pounds. Her nose feels like it has been tightly sealed by house elves while she was asleep.  Her skin feels hot and cold all over, as though it can’t quite make up its mind what sort of suffering she’s supposed to endure.

 

And, if that’s not bad enough, the cat is whining to be fed again.  His piteous caterwauling, which is quite a lot louder and more persistent than the alarm clock, makes it sound quite a lot like he has never eaten a good meal in his entire life. His flabby belly says otherwise, but he ignores the evidence and he dives onto her from where she is encased in bedsheets, digging in with his claws as he continues his assault on her ears.  

 

She tries to pull herself out from under her duvet, but the dizziness pulls her back down.

 

“Prrrowr?” The cat seems to be asking her a question.  Such as “when is food time?” 

 

She stares dumbly at the beast, whose tail is lashing back and forth in annoyance and then promptly collapses on her side. Just as she loses consciousness, she hears her Floo activate, and wonders idly, after all she has been through, how this is not how she imagined dying.

 

There is silence, blessed silence. 

 

But there are no more alarms, no more crying cat.  When she opens her eyes, the room does not spin or stretch, but stays put as it should.

 

Severus is sitting on the edge of the bed, his arms outstretched as he gently places a cool washcloth on her head.

 

She squeaks, which sounds all the more embarrassing, as her nose is still incredibly stuffy, so it comes across as more of a wheezy snort.

 

“Hold still,” he says softly, his voice even with concentration.  She tries to stop herself from smiling at the crease it makes between his eyebrows.

 

“I’m not an invalid,” she says, wrinkling her nose (which feels like it’s made up of a thousand pounds of mucous) as he places it gently on her forehead.  Even in her state, she can faintly smell something powerful and mentholish. 

 

“I was not implying that you were,” he says back, gently stroking her head.  

 

She nearly purrs at the touch despite feeling sick and halfway towards death’s door.

 

“Merely overdramatic,” he finishes, smirking with amusement.

 

“Oh,  _ you evil bastard _ !” She fumes at him, but there’s no bite in her words.

 

“Sticks and stones, dearest,” he replies, tutting, “sticks and stones. Besides, you should not taunt the one who is making you his extra special get-well-sooner chicken noodle soup.  Who knows? He might slip some poison in on  _ accident _ .”

 

“Stop talking in the third person. It’s weird,” she says, grabbing for a tissue and honking loudly.

 

“Stop imitating a Canadian goose or they might decide to nest here for the winter,” Severus replies with a deep chuckle that she can feel in her chest.

 

“Says the bloke with a beak,” she retorts. She can’t help it, even though she’s sick. Well, actually maybe  _ especially _ because she’s sick.  Her filter tends to go on the fritz when she’s out of sorts anyway.

 

“You know you like it,” he teases, “especially when I slip it between your thighs.”

 

She feels the blood rushing to her cheeks, and she knows it’s not the fever.

 

“It’s a shame that there’ll be none of that until you fully convalesce,” he says, tsking loudly. “So very... _ regrettable _ .”

 

“Git,” she mutters under her breath as he turns back to the table behind him.

 

“Oh, you say such delightful things when you are ill,” he says, turning back around with a smoking cup of...something. “Come on, then, down the hatch.”

 

“What...is that?” She looks at it as though it might possibly be the aforementioned poison.

 

“Only an All Cold Remedy, patented by Yours Truly.” He hands it to her and crosses his arms. “Now. Drink.”

 

“Yes,  _ sir _ ,” she says, because she knows it drives him batty.

 

“Don’t make me give you a detention,” he growls back.

 

“Don’t make me give you my cold,” she says, copying his tone of voice.  With a grimace, she chugs down the awful-tasting potion and breathes out a sparking cloud. “Oh. Surprisingly minty.”

 

As soon as her head hits the pillow, she’s drowsier than she’s ever been in her life.  She can barely keep her eyes open, but she can feel her body growing stronger with every breath.  There’s the sensation of lips on her cheek, but she can’t quite tell if she’s just imagining it.  The last thing she hears before she dives deeper into her dreams is the sound of Severus swearing about having to wear her lace-covered flowery apron because it is the only one she owns.


End file.
